


Mr Wooster and the Incident of the Spade

by Mice



Series: The Spade of Spode [2]
Category: Jeeves & Wooster
Genre: Angst, M/M, Spodeage, Violence, freaked!Jeeves, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-24
Updated: 2011-01-24
Packaged: 2017-10-15 01:01:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/155380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mice/pseuds/Mice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt -- First-time featuring protective! or possessive!Jeeeves, and/or H/C. Basically, anything where Jeeves loses his cool.</p><p>Jeeves's tale</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mr Wooster and the Incident of the Spade

**Author's Note:**

> For storyfan, who wanted to know more about what happened. Last minute beta by random_nexus the Wonder Llama.

During the many long and largely happy years of my employment by and association with Bertram Wooster, there have been far too many occasions upon which I have had some concern for his safety. He has been pursued by a drunken madman with a knife, attacked by an irate swan, had a cottage burnt down around him, been bitten by dogs, held at gunpoint under suspicion of theft, assaulted several times by men of his acquaintance, fallen from ladders, been nearly run down by an automobile, and threatened with violence over misunderstandings more often than I care to remember. Among those incidents, however, only one was a genuine and deliberate threat to his life, and that occurrence is one that to this day is capable of causing me to shudder at how very close he came to dying.

His account of the incident is, as has always been his wont, lighthearted and dismissive, glossing over the seriousness of the assault and its aftermath. I believe that he still does not remember all the details, but I will admit I would rather it be so. I would never wish his cheerful and forgiving nature changed in the least, and so it lies with me to keep those terrible memories for both of us. I shall neither forget nor forgive.

The impetus for the incident was yet another of Miss Stephanie Byng's blackmail plots. The drastic outcome was certainly not her intention, nor directly her fault, but the humiliation caused to the Earl of Sidcup was one of its side-effects, and it was this humiliation that triggered his murderous rage. Had I been aware of the situation, I should never have allowed Mr Wooster to wander the grounds at Totleigh Towers alone that afternoon. Unfortunately, a communication that had been delayed by the incident caused Lord Sidcup to be found standing naked in a pond, excessively intoxicated and ranting incoherently, as the so-called Saviors of Britain, otherwise derisively referred to as the Black Shorts, gathered on its banks. This unfortunate public nudity would have been humiliating enough, but the addition of alcohol to the mix was enough to destroy the Earl's influence with his would-be fascistic political party and tear from him all illusions of his ambitions to rule Britain. His rage, as so often was the case, found its focus upon Mr Wooster, who had been coerced into yet another petty theft that contributed to the situation -- this time an object belonging to the Earl -- and which had ultimately led to Lord Sidcup's drunkenness and public disgrace.

I had been unaware of Lord Sidcup's sale of the Eulalie boutique the previous week, and did not hear of his humiliation until it was too late; Mr Wooster had relied upon this word of power to keep Lord Sidcup's ire at bay and had assumed that it would preserve his safety that afternoon as well, as it had always done before. Unfortunately, the precipitous collapse of the Earl's position with the Black Shorts had eliminated any influence that the invocation of Eulalie would ordinarily have effected, even had the Earl still been in possession of the business. It was this unforgivable gap in my knowledge that nearly cost Mr Wooster his life.

The bulk of the day had been unremarkable and I was sitting in the butler's pantry with Mr Butterfield, the butler at Totleigh Towers, having a cup of coffee and discussing events in the village before afternoon tea would be served, when one of the gardeners burst into the kitchen, frantic and shouting for help. We both rose at the commotion and entered the room to cries of, "He's gone off, he has! It's murder! He'll kill him!"

"What's murder? Whom?" Mr Butterfield asked, taking Tim Fordyce, the gardener, by one arm.

Tim gestured wildly toward the open kitchen door into the garden. "The Earl, he's finally popped it! He got my spade from me and he's after one of the guests now!"

My heart froze at the words and I ran for the door. The only guest who would be a likely target for Lord Sidcup's wrath was my master and, although the word Eulalie had brought the man to a stop in mid-rage before, he had never previously attacked Mr Wooster with anything but his hands. That he was armed sounded dire alarms within me.

The sight that greeted me as I dashed into the garden is one that will forever haunt my nightmares. Lord Sidcup, armed with a spade, was advancing on Mr Wooster, who was rising from where he had obviously just fallen. Before he was able to run, the Earl roared, "I'll kill you, Wooster!" and swung the spade, striking my employer hard on the side of his head. Mr Wooster collapsed, bleeding profusely, and the Earl raised the spade again, missing Mr Wooster's head by mere inches as he rolled clumsily out of the way. The spade split a large head of cabbage, flinging splinters of vegetable matter in its wake.

I began shouting, trying to distract the Earl from his murderous attack, but he swung again, this time slicing across Mr Wooster's chest. "No!" I screamed as I ran, "Stop!" I felt only panic.

There is no terror on earth more intense than what one feels when he sees someone for whom he cares deeply being beaten to death before his eyes. I have served on the field of battle. I have held the dying in my arms, limbs scattered by mines or bombardment. Death in war is expected; it is inevitable that some will die, often in the most horrible ways imaginable. Yet to see this violence in a quiet English country garden was a shock that left me breathless with the violation of everything I held sacred, and my dread for the life of a man for whom I had long held the very deepest affection. The sight of Lord Sidcup raising the spade over his head once more, intent upon killing Mr Wooster, struck me to the heart with absolute horror and I threw myself upon him without slowing my velocity in the least, knocking him back several paces and struggling with him for control of the weapon. There was nothing else in my consciousness in that moment; my entire being was focused upon preventing that spade from falling one last time.

The Earl is a large, burly man, and possessed of considerable strength, yet fear and fury lent power to my arms and I wrested the spade from his hands, turning it upon him with a pure, burning wrath. The blow rendered him unconscious and he was knocked flat upon his back by the force of it. I threw the spade, flinging it away with all my strength to keep it from being used again before anyone else could arrive to restrain the Earl, and turned toward Mr Wooster.

In my blind, berserk rage, I had not even seen the dog Bartholomew savaging Mr Wooster's leg. There had been nothing else in my awareness but the Earl, and I now realized that the little monster had likely prevented my master's escape. Breathless, I wrenched the terrier away and kicked him viciously, feeling a savage satisfaction as he sailed over three rows of cabbages, yelping. Mr Wooster lay at my feet, his face and chest covered with blood, and I dropped to my knees next to him, praying that he was still alive.

It was with mixed relief and despair that I heard him mumble something incoherent about a twin brother and rugby as he blinked up at me. He had survived the attack, but it had obviously done him serious harm. There was a far-too-real possibility that his brain had been damaged, and he might yet die of his injuries. I had seen men linger in agony for hours with such wounds and my heart twisted within me at the thought. By this time, several people had arrived, but most of them stood about uselessly, shocked by the violence and the blood. "Stop standing there gawping!" I snapped. "Someone summon a physician!" This seemed to break the spell, and people began to move again; one ran back toward the house, presumably to make the telephone call to the village. I turned my attention to Mr Wooster.

He was bleeding from the nose, and from a large wound that had opened up the side of his head. I saw no indication of bone fragmentation, though that relieved only a small measure of my anxiety. The possibility of hidden damage was still entirely too real. The long gash along his chest was also bleeding badly; I was uncertain if the blow had broken his ribs. Frantic and still panting from my efforts, I pressed my handkerchief to the head wound. Mr Wooster groaned and attempted to rise onto one elbow. I placed my other hand on his chest and said, "Please, sir, don't try to move." A blow to the head such as he had sustained could well have done damage to his spine and, if that were the case, the injury might result in paralysis. That he was trying to rise gave me hope, but I did not wish to chance his hurting himself further.

Behind me, I could hear the others dealing with an enraged Lord Sidcup, but nothing could persuade me to remove my attention from my injured master. Miss Devon, one of the kitchen maids, hurried to my side with a large linen tablecloth in her hands. She knelt beside me as Mr Wooster's unfocused eyes fluttered closed. This sent an intense jolt of fear through me. Unconsciousness is not a state to be desired after an injury such as he had sustained. "No, sir," I pleaded with him. "Stay with me. Don't fall asleep -- please, sir." His only response was a soft moan.

Miss Devon laid the tablecloth out next to Mr Wooster and, with the assistance of Mr Butterfield, we moved him carefully onto the makeshift stretcher. This, unfortunately, resulted in Mr Wooster vomiting, but such an occurrence was not unexpected under the circumstances. Four of the staff lifted Mr Wooster while I held my handkerchief to his head, staunching some of the bleeding. I begged him to wake, to open his eyes, even for a moment, but he did not respond. A few moments later, we were inside and he was laid gently onto the long kitchen table, where he could rest, and where the doctor could examine him once he arrived.

The longer Mr Wooster remained unconscious, the worse the injury was likely to be, and I was frantic as Tim brought a towel to the table and pressed it to Mr Wooster's chest wound. Mr Wooster groaned and his eyes blinked open, much to my intense relief. "The doctor will be here shortly, sir," I said, trying to be reassuring.

"Wh-where's Spode?" he asked. His voice was weak and hesitant, but the question was clear and coherent and I could feel my eyes burning with unshed tears of gratitude for this small mercy.

Before I could answer him, Sir Watkyn Bassett arrived, surveying the chaos with anger in his demeanor. "What is the meaning of all this?" he shouted, glaring down at Mr Wooster.

With a sharp breath and an effort of will, I composed myself, but I could barely contain my fury or my fear. "Lord Sidcup has very nearly killed Mr Wooster. A physician has been summoned. I believe it would be wise if Mrs Travers were informed, as well." She needed to know what had happened to her nephew and, if Mr Wooster survived the next hour, she would undoubtedly wish to bring him to Brinkley Court, where he could be seen to properly. I could not in any way advise her to trust Sir Watkyn's hospitality under these circumstances. Sir Watkyn gave a curt nod, sending one of the footmen off to phone Brinkley as Mr Wooster shuddered and once again closed his eyes. My heart dropped.

"I shall find out what happened," Sir Watkyn said, turning his glare upon me. "No doubt Wooster instigated this." He stormed through the kitchen and out into the garden, where I could hear Lord Sidcup still arguing with the staff who were restraining him. I did not care. The only thing that mattered to me now was Mr Wooster, unconscious and bleeding under my fingers.

I am rarely a demonstrative man; despite Mr Wooster's characterization of me, I am not quite as stoic as he suggests, yet I could justifiably be described as reserved. This circumstance, however, left me trembling as I attempted to wake my employer, pleading softly for him to open his eyes again. Miss Devon brought warm water and clean towels, and we washed away what blood and soil we could without disturbing the wounds as we awaited the doctor's arrival.

As the moments passed and Mr Wooster did not regain consciousness, I found myself less able to speak without a catch in my voice and I blinked back tears, not wishing to lose control of myself in front of everyone. Mr Butterfield, returning from the garden, where a loud argument was still in progress, placed his hand on my shoulder and I looked up at him. "Steady on, Reg," he said, his words quiet but firm. "Doctor Threndleby will be here in about ten minutes, and he's got Constable Oates with him."

I took a breath and nodded. "Thank you, Ben." I was hopeful that Mr Wooster would still be alive when the doctor arrived, but whether he would ever regain consciousness again was an open question. I quickly folded a clean, dry towel and pressed carefully it to the still-bleeding wound on Mr Wooster's head.

"That blowhard outside is wanting to press assault charges against you," he continued, "but there's not a man jack among us who won't testify that you were only protecting your gentleman." He snorted. "I say it's a miracle you only hit him the once; I'd have clouted the blighter at least three times, just to be sure he'd not get up again."

"And Mrs Travers?"

"I'm told they've dropped everything and the Mister and Missus will be here in about twenty minutes. They've got a bit further to go, coming from Market Snodsbury like that."

Despite everything, this calmed me somewhat. "Then all we can do is wait," I said.

"I'll try to keep the Earl out of here," Mr Butterfield replied. "The last thing you and Mr Wooster need right now is to have him come storming in making a disturbance." He nodded sharply. "You did right, Reg. Don't forget that, no matter what happens."

Mr Wooster moaned and attempted to move, snapping my attention back to him, and I leaned over him to hold him still. It felt nearly like an embrace and I rested my forehead on his for a moment. "Easy, sir," I murmured. "Stay still. Please, sir, wake up for me. You must wake up."

There was no response beyond another quiet moan, but by this time both Miss Byng and Lady Sidcup entered the kitchen, followed closely by Reverend Pinker. There was a great commotion, to which I did not respond, instead allowing the staff and Mr Butterfield to handle their questions and the inevitable mild hysteria from Lady Sidcup, who still believed that Mr Wooster was pining for her. By this time, everything around me had been reduced to a swirl of meaningless noise and motion, my only stable point the pale, bloodied face of my dear, unconscious master as I begged him in increasingly helpless tones to open his eyes for me.

***

Doctor Threndleby's arrival allowed me to breathe at last, though Constable Oates wished to question me. I refused to leave Mr Wooster's side while I answered him, giving what detail I could as I assisted the Doctor when he needed to move Mr Wooster in order to examine his wounds thoroughly. By the time his examination was finished and he had stitched Mr Wooster's wounds, Mr and Mrs Travers had arrived.

"He's a very lucky young man," Doctor Threndleby told them. Mrs Travers was obviously terribly shaken by the sight, but Mr Travers was steady despite the situation. "There's a skull fracture, but it's a hairline fracture. His skull could well have been crushed by the force of the blow, and that would likely have meant we could do nothing for him at all, this far from London and the specialist surgeons. As it is, his ribs are all right, but he required rather a lot of stitching up. There doesn't appear to be any spinal damage, so I don't believe he'll be paralyzed."

"Will he recover, then?" Mrs Travers asked.

Doctor Threndleby sighed as he washed his hands. "He's not likely to die at this point," he said, "but with injuries like this, it could be days or weeks before we know what will happen. It's possible there may be some brain damage, in which case there could be drastic personality changes. I won't be able to tell until he regains consciousness. I'll need to talk to him once he's awake again. He's not likely to remember much about the attack. He might not recognize anyone for several days, or even be able to speak coherently. He's likely to have very bad headaches, dizziness, and nausea when he does wake. You should be prepared for that."

Mrs Travers looked up at me. "And that pestilence, Spode, did this to him?"

I nodded. "Yes, Mrs Travers."

"I'll have him up on charges," she growled. "I'll see that rotter in prison for this."

"Indeed, madam," I said, pleased that she intended to prosecute the man. While Mr Wooster's relatives are not generally kind to him, Mrs Travers does care for him and attempts to act in his best interests, even if he does not agree with her assessment of those interests. I felt confident that there would be some justice done.

"We'll be moving Bertie to Brinkley as soon as I've spoken to Bassett and that excrescence," she snapped. "Do see to it."

"Immediately, madam," I replied, nodding to one of the young footmen as she left the room. "Please see to it that the Travers's automobile is brought around so that we may bring Mr Wooster out to it."

"Right, Mr Jeeves," the young man replied, hurrying from the kitchen. I remained with Mr Wooster, helping the doctor to wrap him in a blanket while Mr and Mrs Travers spoke with Sir Watkyn and Lord Sidcup, who had since been moved to one of the drawing rooms, far from the kitchen.

That conversation took nearly fifteen minutes, during which time I took Mr Wooster into my arms and carried him through the house and out to the Travers's vehicle. It was a much larger automobile than Mr Wooster's two-seater. I was relieved that they had brought it instead of one of the faster sporting models, which would not have had room to transport him or myself. Mr Butterfield met me out in the front drive as I was settling Mr Wooster into the back seat. "I'll have Johnston bring your gentleman's motorcar and your things out to Brinkley Court, Reg," he said. "You'll need to be with Mr Wooster, and you're in no shape to be driving right now regardless."

"You're very kind, Ben, thank you," I replied. "The need had entirely escaped my attention."

He nodded. "I know. It's all right. Mr and Mrs Travers will be along in just a moment. Constable Oates will be taking the Earl down into Totleigh-in-the-Wold to hold on charges of assault and attempted murder. It's surely what he deserves. God knows I hope your gentleman recovers from this."

I shifted in the seat and laid Mr Wooster gently into my lap, holding him carefully so that the uninjured side of his head rested upon my shoulder and I could steady him in my arms. "He may not," I said, my voice nearly trembling.

"I know you, Reg. You'll see him through, whatever happens." He sounded far more confident than I felt and he reached out to me. I shook his hand as Mr and Mrs Travers hurried toward us. "Take care, lad. Let me know how he's doing when you're able, and tell me if there's anything I can do for you."

"I shall," I said with a nod. "If the Earl is released for any reason, please notify me immediately."

"Absolutely."

"Are you ready?" Mr Travers asked as Mr Butterfield opened the passenger door for Mrs Travers.

"Yes, sir."

"How is Bertie?" Mrs Travers added, seating herself in front of me.

"Unchanged, madam," I said. She sighed heavily as Mr Travers took the driver's seat. As the engine had already been running, he put the automobile into gear and we started the journey back to Brinkley.

Mrs Travers turned in her seat to look at me. "I'm told you saved my nephew's life today."

"As you say, madam."

She shook her head. "Oh, don't give me that stuffed frog business, Jeeves. You took a considerable risk, striking a peer of the realm."

"I had no choice, madam." There was no risk that would have kept me from intervening to save Mr Wooster's life. Had I killed the man when I struck him, I would have felt no regret beyond my own guilt for not knowing Mr Wooster was in danger and preventing the incident entirely.

Reaching over the back of the seat, she touched Mr Wooster's head gently, stroking her fingers through his damp, still-bloody hair. "Thank you, Jeeves. It's not just anyone who would have waded in against that rhinoceros for Bertie's sake. He's a dashed intimidating son of a warthog."

"Indeed, madam." I nodded slightly. "I could do nothing less."

"I won't forget this," she said, her voice catching. "Even if... if the young blot is never himself again and you have to leave his service, I'll see to it that your loyalty is rewarded."

I shivered, tightening my arms about him. "I shall not leave him," I said. "The circumstances do not matter. It is my responsibility to care for him."

"You're not a nursemaid, Jeeves, and I don't expect you to act as one."

"It may be that he will not require one. Doctor Threndleby said it may be days or weeks before we know if he will recover, but he may indeed return to his normal state of being, given time."

Mrs Travers closed her eyes for a long moment, suddenly looking far older than she had ever previously seemed to me. "We're all hoping for the best, but we must also be resolved to prepare for the worst. I just want you to know that you'll be taken care of, young man, no matter what happens."

"Thank you, madam." I hoped that it would never come to such an event, but I was grateful for her consideration.

She turned to face forward again after that, and we did not speak again until we arrived at Brinkley. As I carried Mr Wooster into a sickroom at Mrs Travers's direction, Doctor Threndleby arrived to supervise the arrangements and give instructions to the family and staff for Mr Wooster's care. I made certain to take thorough notes as I stood by the window on the far side of the room; the chairs beside his sickbed were for his family. Mr and Mrs Travers were both present, as were his cousins Miss Angela and Master Bonzo, and his friend Mr Glossop. The mood in the room was subdued. Everyone was still substantially in shock over the events of the afternoon.

"The sooner he regains consciousness, the better his prognosis," Doctor Threndleby said. "He will need to be monitored at all times until that happens."

"We'll have someone here constantly," Mr Travers said, nodding. "There are enough of us to see to it."

"It could be several days." Doctor Threndleby finished attending to Mr Wooster and turned to the family. "I should be called daily with reports regarding his condition, and if he wakes, I should be notified immediately so that I may come and examine him again."

"Of course." Mr Travers rose from his chair as the doctor placed his equipment back in his bag. At this point, the younger members of the family departed, though reluctantly, urged out by Mrs Travers. She came to me as Mr Travers and the doctor continued their conversation.

"You're still covered in filth, Jeeves. I want you to go clean up and get into some fresh clothes, then get yourself something to eat. You're not to return to Bertie's room until you've done so, do you hear me?"

I gave a small nod in acknowledgment. "Yes, madam." Our belongings had, no doubt, already arrived from Totleigh and I expected that my valise had been placed in the room I usually occupied while Mr Wooster was in residence. I tucked the notebook with the doctor's instructions into the pocket of my morning coat and turned to go.

"Jeeves."

"Yes, madam?"

She walked with me toward the door, plucking at my sleeve. "I do expect you to get some rest this evening. I'll stay with him until it's time for bed."

"Yes, madam." I was, for all intents and purposes, being dismissed until after the dinner hour. I gave one last look at Mr Wooster's still, pale form and departed for belowstairs, my heart and mind in turmoil.

***

The next two days were marked by boredom, fear, frustration, exhaustion, and disappointment. Lady Worplesdon arrived late that first night in a thoroughly foul mood that did not lift. Through her anger I could see that, in her own way, she did love her nephew; she was simply very bad at showing that familial affection when he was conscious to appreciate it. Knowing how she disliked me, I endeavored to remain out of her sight as best I could. I stayed by Mr Wooster's side at every possible moment, lurking near even when one of his family members was with him, even if it had to be just outside the door of his room. Mr Wooster regained some semblance of consciousness several times but recognized no one, remembered nothing of what had happened, and did not know where he was. The heartbreak of his family was painful and obvious, though they carried on bravely in the face of this misfortune.

During my time with him, I took every opportunity to offer him liquid when he was aware enough to sip if I brought it to his lips. The nights I spent largely alone by his bedside, silently holding his hand, unable to hold back my tears. I spoke to him softly at frequent intervals, hoping that he might by some miracle recognize my voice and return to me. Each time he opened his eyes I hoped it would be the moment that he returned to consciousness and cognizance, but he was only capable of slurred, disjointed words and quiet, pained sounds. My heart fractured further each time he failed to awaken fully.

It was well after three in the morning and I was once again speaking quietly to Mr Wooster, my face still wet with the tears I had shed, when Mrs Travers entered soundlessly. "Jeeves," she murmured; it was unusual for her to speak quietly, but she had been extremely subdued since the attack on her nephew. Startled, I wiped my eyes with a handkerchief and stood as I attempted to compose myself. "No, no," she said, gesturing at me. "There's no need for that at this hour. How has he been?"

I slowly lowered myself back into the chair as she brought another over to face mine. "The same, madam," I said. "He has not regained consciousness in at least four hours."

She nodded and sagged into the chair, exhaustion plainly spoken in every line and angle of her body. "I thought as much," she said, sighing. She leaned back and looked at me. "I couldn't sleep. I suppose I wanted to talk to you."

"Indeed, madam?" Every detail of Mr Wooster's condition and treatment had already been discussed and worried over many times. I was uncertain what she wanted.

Resting her elbows upon the arms of the chair, she steepled her fingers and looked at me intently for several minutes. I found this examination disconcerting but it would have been indecorous to compel her to speak before she was ready. Eventually, she seemed to find some resolve, for she straightened slightly and took a bracing breath. "I wish to ask you an exceedingly improper question, Jeeves," she said.

"Madam?" I was too tired and worn to hide my confusion. I had, after all, been awake for the greater part of the past three days with very little rest, not having slept since the night before the attack.

"Your loyalty to my nephew is exemplary, Jeeves," she began. "I've rarely seen such devotion in a servant and I cannot begin to express my gratitude to you for that dedication." I nodded, silent. "Yet what I see in you, Jeeves, doesn't seem inspired by duty. I know you're exceedingly fond of the young blot. You obviously care for him a great deal." I suddenly realized where this conversation was leading and forced myself not to react, despite the sudden sensation of my blood freezing in my veins. "What I wish to know, Jeeves, is this: are you his lover?"

Even knowing the question was coming, it was shocking to hear it spoken so bluntly. "Madam!" I objected, stunned and breathless. Such an accusation could garner both of us two years of hard labor or incarceration in an insane asylum. The prospect terrified me nearly as much as the thought of losing Mr Wooster.

She shook her head. "No, Jeeves, at this point I don't care what the law or the church say about this subject. I simply want an honest answer to my question."

Dizzy with anxiety, I slowly shook my head. "No, madam," I whispered, "I am not."

"Not for lack of wanting, I suspect." I could no longer meet her eyes, and said nothing, my hand tightening about Mr Wooster's. "He's absolutely besotted with you, you know," she continued. She sounded as though she had not even noticed my distress. "I know he's actually been interested in a few girls in the past, but I've always known he wasn't the marrying sort." I managed to look back up at her, still unable to speak, trembling slightly. That she knew what I held in my heart frightened me despite her reassuring words. "What I've seen here in the past few days has quite proved to me that you love him, Jeeves. Only love would drive a man like you into this state of abject wretchedness." She indicated my unkempt and disheveled condition with a wave of her hand. "Servants don't wait unbidden by the master's bed for two days, barely eating or sleeping, nor do they speak to an unconscious employer with that sort of desperation in their voices. Only family are that hopelessly idiotic."

"What is it you want, madam?" I asked, unable to keep a tremor from my voice. If she sent me away from him now, I could not bear it. If this were blackmail, I had no idea what I would do; I would comply with nearly anything to remain by his side.

"I don't want anything from you, Jeeves, except that you continue to care for him. If he recovers..." Her voice cracked, but she rallied and her words became stronger and more clear again, though quiet in deference to the dangerous subject of our conversation. "If he recovers and the two of you manage to work something out together, I can only say you'd make a better... I wouldn't know what to call it, but you'd be a better one than Glossop would make a husband to Angela. You're responsible, you're gainfully employed, you're intelligent and loyal, and you're more clever than a basket of Oxford-educated weasels." I listened in growing disbelief. "What is your Christian name, anyway?" she asked.

"Reginald, madam."

"What I'm saying, Reginald, is that I don't give a fig for what anyone might say. You already take better care of him than any wife ever would, and I know that I can trust you with him. So long as you are discreet and bring no disgrace to the family, you two may do as you wish with no interference from me. I'll even do my best to rein in Agatha, for all that she continues to fling unsuitable women at him every time his name floats through her brain."

I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry as dust. "I don't understand."

She huffed a short, humorless laugh. "I thought I'd made it quite clear. You're not usually nearly so much like a brick in intellectual capacity; that's more Bertie's territory. I shall state it as plainly as I can in deference to your obvious state of flummox: You're good for the young blister. You've proved in the past two days that you'll stick with him through the worst, and you steady and guide him without his even noticing. I won't find that anywhere else, so I see no point in continuing to look. Why should I care what the pair of you get up to behind locked doors?" I blinked in disbelief, unable to breathe. "Oh, don't look so shocked. The world needs a little more love in it, as far as I'm concerned."

"I..." I felt incapable of even thinking. How could this possibly have happened? It was beyond comprehension.

Mrs Travers sighed and shook her head. She stood and came to my side while I watched, numb. Her hand rested upon my shoulder. "I never did think I'd see you speechless, Jeeves. I should mark it on the calendar. A red-letter day."

"Thank you," I whispered, my mind whirling helplessly. There were no other adequate words. She smiled a small, sad smile.

"It's not likely to be easy for either of you, I know," she said. "I do believe you're capable of rising to the challenge, though." She patted my shoulder and turned, walking quietly from the room, leaving me silent and stunned in her wake.

***

It was midday the next day when Mr Wooster finally returned to consciousness. The family were at luncheon, leaving me alone with him, and I had been reading a bit to distract myself. His eyes fluttered open and he whimpered, wincing and turning his head from the light coming in the window. "Sir?" I said, hoping that this would be the time he'd respond to my voice.

His eyes focused upon me and I felt a spark of hope. "J-Jeeves?" His voice was weak and rough with disuse, but the joy I felt at that single word was indescribable.

"Oh, sir!" I leaned toward him to look into his eyes more closely. "I shall inform Mrs. Travers that you've awakened at last." That I was the first person he remembered had nearly undone me. He reached out to me with a trembling hand as I started to stand, halting me with a touch, and I took his hand.

"What happened?" he asked. My fingers tightened about his and I resettled into my seat for a moment, overcome.

"You were assaulted by Lord Sidcup two days ago, sir," I said. "You are currently at Brinkley Court. Although you had briefly regained consciousness several times in the last two days, this is the first time you have recognized anyone." My eyes stung but I refrained from shedding tears before him. I gently brushed his hair from his eyes and he sighed as we continued to speak. That his next question was an inquiry about my own state and whether I was safe touched my heart in the most gratifying manner and I assured him that no charges had been brought against me. I desperately wanted to take him into my arms, but such a thing was impossible under the circumstances, and my responsibility was to Mrs Travers and his family, to let them know he had finally awakened, that he had remembered some of what had transpired, and that he had finally returned to us.

Once I had brought Mrs Travers to his bedside and someone had been sent to inform Doctor Threndleby of this change in circumstances, I retired to the hallway, just outside the door, waiting to be summoned if they required anything. It was only a moment before Mrs Travers rang for me, and I closed the curtains against the light before she finished her request. My heart rose as a phoenix to see him continuing to speak clearly with her, though he was exhausted by the effort and fading quickly. Miss Angela hurried to the doorway, asking after him. "He has finally awakened," I told her, as Mr Wooster's eyes closed again.

"This is absolutely topping," Mrs Travers said, her voice quiet but filled with relief. "Absolutely topping. You've sent for Doctor Threndleby?"

I nodded. "Yes, madam. He said he would come immediately."

"Oh, that is excellent news!" She rose from the chair beside his bed and added, "Do try to rest, Jeeves. While I appreciate the care you're taking of him, I don't want to have to bung you into a sickbed as well, after all this."

"I shall endeavor to rest, madam," I answered, though I was extremely reluctant to leave his side. I resolved to wait until after the doctor had seen him before I retired to my room to attempt to sleep. Once she departed, I returned to my bedside chair, bringing it closer and taking his hand once again. I looked at him, my heart filled with joy and hope. Unable to resist for another moment, I raised his hand to my lips and pressed a gentle kiss to it. I knew that this was not the end of his recovery, but it was enough to know that we would eventually be able to return home to London, enough to know that he remembered me, to know that he cared what might happen to me after defending him against the Earl. I knew that, for a few hours at least, I would at last be able to sleep without worry.

***

Over the next three days, Mr Wooster awakened more often, with increasing clarity in his responses, though he was still physically drained after his ordeal. He required assistance with everything. I helped him to eat and to walk, I spoke with him frequently to aid in his mental recovery, read to him when he was bored, and watched over him as he slept. I was by his side each day until I was ordered to my bed by Mrs Travers for a few hours each night. Although I was reluctant to leave him, I knew that I required rest in order to function and so obeyed without any objection.

It was with the greatest relief that Mr Wooster was finally released from Doctor Threndleby's care to return to London. While Mr Wooster was still suffering from dizzy spells and was therefore in no condition to drive, I was equally exhausted from caring for him, and so it was decided that we should take the train back to the city, and Mr Wooster's Aston would be driven by one of the footmen. He left in the morning before the train departed, and took our belongings back with him so that I would have only Mr Wooster himself to look after in the course of our journey. The keys would be left with Mr Jarvis, our doorman, who would also see to the luggage. It was an equitable arrangement, and I was pleased to finally open the door to our flat and see Mr Wooster to his room to rest after our long ordeal.

I assisted Mr Wooster into his heliotrope pyjamas and carefully adjusted the duvet over him, wanting little more than to collapse in my own bed until morning. I knew Mr Wooster was likely to sleep through the night, left to his own devices, and I had not had a full night's sleep in more than a week. Before I could turn to go, however, he spoke, his voice hesitant. "Jeeves," he said, "I know you're likely feeling about as wrung out as I am, but would you stay for a few moments? I'd like to talk to you."

"Of course, sir," I said, sitting on the edge of the bed. No doubt he wished to instruct me on some detail of his preference for breakfast the next morning, or some other such matter. Despite my complete exhaustion, I gave him my full attention, and he took my hand in his.

"I've been remembering more about what happened in bits and pieces over the last few days," he said, "but I'd like to hear what you saw. Spin for me your account of said events."

He had not previously asked, only offering his increasing memories of that afternoon, and I had not volunteered my own perspective upon the incident. It had haunted me and I had no wish to give it further hold over me by speaking of it. I had to take a steadying breath before complying, but I offered him my account of the events and he only interrupted briefly to ask questions or offer the occasional comment. It was much more difficult for me than I had anticipated and, because of my state of exhaustion, my emotions overcame me more than once as I spoke. It was extremely difficult, and I found myself trembling by the time I finished my recounting of the assault. "I cannot express to you, sir, how relieved I was when you opened your eyes and called me by name," I finished.

Mr Wooster favored me with an odd look, as though he were steeling himself for some pronouncement. "There were a few times, Jeeves, when you thought I was asleep, that I felt the application of lips to my hand." My heart stuttered. I was uncertain how to respond. If Mrs Travers were wrong, if he did not want my attentions, he might ask me to leave. "I just wanted you to know I found it a comfort when I dashed well needed one." Letting out a sharp breath, the tension in my body ebbed. "I wondered, though," he said, with a hint of tremulous hope in his voice, "what you'd meant by it."

For a moment, all I could do was look at him. I was uncertain of how to respond. What if I said or did the wrong thing? Was it worth the risk to declare myself to him at last? Yet Mrs Travers's discussion with me that night by his bedside lingered in my mind and I realized that I could no longer deny what I felt, nor could I deprive him of any comfort or the love I had for him. My mind made up, I leaned in slowly, allowing him time for any potential objection, and pressed my lips gently to his. He sighed into the soft kiss and tugged at my hand, urging me closer, and I continued the longing brush of my lips against his as I followed his lead, finally lying next to him and taking him in my arms as I had wanted to for so very long. "Oh, sir," I whispered, unable or unwilling to draw my lips away even for a moment to speak.

His arms embraced me and I pulled him to me with increasing emotion. His mouth opened to my tongue and we exchanged kisses, deep and slow in their mutual passion. I needed him so very much; I'd held myself back for years, unwilling to chance violating the boundaries between us for fear of being dismissed by him. "Don't let go," he panted once we had withdrawn to catch our breath.

"Never, sir," I murmured, and kissed him again. I caressed his cheek with my fingers, reveling even in the feel of the slight stubble there. "May I stay with you tonight, sir?" I asked, gazing into his eyes with all the love I felt for him open on my face.

He nodded. "Every night, if you like," he whispered. I could not help embracing him fervently, a soft sound of near-desperate approval in my throat. "I'm too knackered to do anything more than sleep right now," he said. "I am sorry about that, old thing."

"No." I shook my head, not wanting to push him beyond his physical limits. I was too exhausted to do anything but hold him anyway. "There will be sufficient time when we are both rested." And when we were rested, I would make absolutely certain to provide both of us with thorough satisfaction.

"Right-ho. Tomorrow, then?"

"That is my hope," I said, smiling openly in my joy. I kissed him again, over and over, despite my increasing tiredness, reveling in the feeling of him pressed against me. After a few minutes of this, however, I knew we both needed sleep very badly, so I rose and parted from him only long enough to exchange my clothing for pyjamas, then returned to slip beneath the bedclothes with him. This night had given me the culmination of years of dreams and longing, and I could scarcely believe my good fortune as we settled into comfortable positions for the night, Mr Wooster's warm, heavy body partially draped over my own, his head resting on my shoulder as we drifted into sleep.

***

When I opened my eyes slowly in the pre-dawn glow through the bedroom window, I saw that Mr Wooster was observing me, silent but intent. Our bodies were still tangled together in a warm, comfortable embrace, and this brought me great joy. More joyful still was the moment when Mr Wooster kissed me, and I made a small, pleasured sound as I returned the kiss, magnified and deepened.

He leaned into me, expressing urgent need with the press of his body, and I could feel his arousal lying hot against my hip. My own phallus grew harder as our kisses continued, and I knew that he wanted to make love with me. I proceeded at a leisurely pace, in deference to his injuries, stopping now and then to assess his condition with soft touches and careful, unspoken inquiry. He was eager in his disrobing, tugging at my pyjamas as I slowly removed the heliotrope silk from his slender frame.

Finally, both of us bared to one another, we moved together in a slow, erotic dance. We caressed one another's bodies, exploring wordlessly with fingers and palms, with lips and tongues, offering gentle nips at earlobes or the round rise of a nipple from sparse, dark hair upon a chest. Our converse was composed of moans and gasps and quiet sighs as we mapped previously unknown territories, learning one another's sensitivities and pleasures. When my fingers rubbed cautiously into the deep space between his buttocks, he shivered deliciously and pressed back against them, so I reached into the bedside drawer where there was a small bottle of a soothing lotion, kept against the private needs that any gentleman must sometimes satisfy. Thus supplied, I pressed my slick fingers into him and his body opened easily to me, his lips offering a desperate moan of pleasure as he wrapped his legs about my waist.

I would give him everything he needed, everything he desired. I looked into his half-closed eyes, seeking leave to take what he offered, and he smiled at me, joy and pleasure diffuse on his face, before he kissed me with fierce possessiveness. Finally, I laid him on his back and knelt above him, resting my weight on one elbow as I guided my hard prick into his body. I groaned, gasping for breath at the pleasure of it as I lowered myself into the tight heat of him. I felt bliss radiating through me as I moved, trying to maintain my control. "So good, love," he gasped, drawing me deeply into himself with arms and legs and the twist of his hips.

My need was too great, and I shuddered, thrusting into him with some force, drawing an ecstatic cry from him as I filled him with my entire length. "Oh, sir, yes!" I moaned, withdrawing and thrusting again, finally allowing my body what it so desperately needed. "I've wanted you for so long." There had been moments over the years when my want had been sheer agony, but I had contained it, having no choice in the matter. To allow myself this was the deepest bliss I had known in a very long time.

"Not sir, not now," he panted, kissing me deeply and moving with me beneath the weight of my body.

I could not contain the emotions aroused by that demand. Here, in our bed, we were not master and man, we were lover and beloved, and I thrust into him relentlessly, overcome by what might have been. "Bertram," I gasped, the entirety of my being focused upon him, "I so nearly lost you."

His back arched and he choked out, "I'm here, love, I'm-- _oh_!" He shuddered in my arms, his entire body tightening as he lost himself in _la petit mort_. My hips continued their desperate rhythm as I held him through the intensity of it, finally following him into the abyss as his body loosened and relaxed beneath me. This moment, this expression of love between us, had been so long in coming, and it was a moment of pure ecstasy for me, finding my release within him. There was no thought, only the tidal wash of my emotions and my pleasure as we trembled together, consummated at last.

Finally, exhausted, we lay in one another's arms with limbs shaking in the aftershocks of our delight. After what seemed forever, his fingers trailed through my hair and he murmured, "Th-that was... bally amazing."

I was entirely overcome by the depth of my emotions, an unguarded tear slipping from my eyes to run along the warm skin of his temple. I could not help sniffling, though I wished I could conceal it. "I love you," I whispered, feeling it with every cell of my body.

Gently, he took my face between his hands and turned my head until I met his eyes. "I know, old thing. I know," he said. Gratified beyond words, I smiled and kissed him again. "I love you with all the soppiness of the dread former Bassett's fairy fluff," he added. "It's shocking, the depths to which Bertram will sink when it comes to you."

"You might call me Reginald if you wish," I told him, uncertain where we would go from here.

A smile suffused his countenance. "Is Reggie all right?" he asked.

"If you must," I said with a resigned sigh. It was not unheard-of among my friends and acquaintances, and I would not object. From his lips, it would still be a blessing.

His smile broadened into a grin. "Just corking, Reggie," he said.

"How are you feeling, Bertram?" I ran a careful hand over the stitches on the side of his head.

"I have a bally rotter of a headache," he admitted, "but we chased it off for a while, at least. More than worth it, old fruit."

"You should rest today. I'll stay a little longer before I need to rise and begin the tasks of the day, but there is much for me to do now that we've returned home."

His lips curved in a _moue_ of disappointment. "Must you? I mean to say, we've only just started this snuggling up in bed together thingummy and I don't want to give it up nearly so soon." An expression of worry creased his brow as he paused for a moment. "I say," he said, his demeanor suddenly uneasy. "How are we going to keep this from everyone?"

"We shall carry on outwardly as we always have, Bertram," I answered, bringing him closer into my arms. I hesitated before I offered my next statement. "We will not have to hide this from everyone, though."

"Oh?" His head tilted, a portrait of confusion. "How does that work? I thought there was that whole law whatsit we had to worry about?"

"I do not wish to alarm you, but your aunt, Mrs Travers, is aware of our feelings for one another."

Confusion was swiftly replaced with fear. "What? Good lord, what did she say, and why are we not in chokey right now if that's the case?"

"In essence," I said, "she has offered her approval of our arrangement, so long as the family is not disgraced and the matter does not come to anyone's attention."

"Really?" I nodded, explaining our conversation late in the night by his sickbed. Eventually, he sighed. "Well, I suppose the aged relation's promise to keep my fire-breathing Aunt Agatha off me is the best we'll ever do. I must say, I'm flummoxed. Bemused. Bamboozled. You must have been in quite the state for Aunt Dahlia to have seen through you like that."

"I fear I was," I said. "The thought of losing you had entirely undone me. The lapse was not intentional, I assure you."

"Well, I for one am glad for the old gal's approval. I say, I might even drop those charges against Spode, given the end result, what?"

I could not help the intensity of my reaction to the thought. "No!" I snapped. "He tried to kill you, and very nearly succeeded. I can in no way countenance your dropping the charges against him. Regardless of the outcome, I shall never allow you to be alone with the Earl for a single moment, ever again. I will _not_ allow him to endanger you for any reason." My heart had quickened with my alarm and I could not disguise my distress at the thought. " _I love you_ ," I said, putting all the weight of my emotion behind the words. "I know that you are a much more forgiving man than I, Bertram, but I cannot allow it. Please, sir, do not even ask such a thing."

He looked at me, startled by the vehemence of my reaction. His own response was subdued. "Well, old thing, if it puts you off your feed enough that you've started sirring me before you're even out from under the duvet, I suppose I should take it to heart."

"Thank you," I breathed. I rested my forehead against his, holding him tightly. "Thank you."

Mr Wooster kissed me, though whether he was attempting to distract or reassure, I could not tell. In the end, it did not matter. He was safe, he would be well once again, and he was finally mine. That would be enough for any man. It was certainly enough for me.

~~fin~~


End file.
